Za'faran
Short story for Vault Zine
Published by With/out Pretend, 2019
Hunched over the barberry bush with a crimson hand, inside she fries them; sliced almonds and orange peel, gently gripping a wooden spoon guided by her tremor. Leaning against my parent’s kitchen counter, Maman tells me of her early home in Kerman — a place with lush palm trees cradling dates, market barrels of rose petals and cinnamon. Turmeric that never fully forgets one’s orange palms. How her father, a silversmith, had always wanted a daughter amongst his four sons, so when Maman finally came into Earth, he threw a party at the bazaar and kissed the ground. Where Maman as a child would sneak behind café chairs watching older women smoke in bright tulip skirts and silk sequined blouses. There’s one photo left of her at age four, a rich grey crease across her face.
Full story available through hello@melinamehr.com